


Equilibrium

by patternofdefiance



Series: I Blame Tumblr [10]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Developing Relationship, M/M, Relationship Fluff, Sherlock Being Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-03
Updated: 2015-01-03
Packaged: 2018-03-05 02:20:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3101741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/patternofdefiance/pseuds/patternofdefiance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock doesn’t just come out and say: ‘John, I think it’s time you moved into my room with me, and I’d like it very much if you did just that.’ No, that’s not his way, especially in this not-his-area.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Equilibrium

**Author's Note:**

> For Sherlocksbutt on tumblr.  
> <3

Sherlock doesn’t just come out and say: ‘John, I think it’s time you moved into my room with me, and I’d like it very much if you did just that.’ No, that’s not his way, especially in this not-his-area.

Instead, Sherlock just starts…preparing the way - clearing off the top (and then clearing out the inside) of one of the bedside tables, making room in the wardrobe for the things John wears every day, leaving bare one of the hooks on the back of the bedroom door…

In short, half the room seems empty, barren even of the incidental clutter that Sherlock allows to crop up. It’s a void, a vacuum, and it acts just as Sherlock hoped it would: slowly but surely, John’s things begin to populate the vacated terrain.

His robe occupies the naked hook first (close to the shared shower, convenient,) and then his slippers colonize the space beside what is (more and more frequently) his side of Sherlock’s bed.

His wristwatch overnights on the pristine bedside table when he overnights in Sherlock’s arms, and his gun roosts in the drawer when they’re in the middle of a could-be-dangerous case.

Somehow, his (hastily) discarded clothing is always hanging up the next morning, woolen jumpers and 10 quid shirts brushing up against cashmere and silk.

And in this way, John is the unwitting invader, Sherlock’s room the willing territory. It’s unspoken invitation and hesitant, unsure acceptance, but it happens slowly, an osmosis of personal possessions, a diffusion of habits and thoughts.

The momentous moment comes, one day, when Sherlock knows John knows, and when they both realise the other is fine with this new state of affairs:

John’s alarm clock appears beside the lamp on his bedside table (the inside of which has already been claimed by accoutrement - receipts, charger cables, three note books, old medical journals, one solitary glove, a half-full plastic tube, a half empty box that has been hastily and messily opened again and again - amongst other things), but this, _this_ turns John from tourist to conquistador. It means he plans to stay the night, and not just because exhaustion or satiation leads to sleep.

It means he plans to stay.

As they undress themselves for sleep that night, John looks up just as Sherlock looks at the alarm clock for the seventeenth time.

"Do you mind?" John asks, standing in a room full of his things, his clothes, the very air permeated by his presence (Sherlock still means to take samples from his and John’s pillowcases, to see for himself how John’s dead skin cells have woven into the fabric, forever claiming that side of the bed - but he keeps forgetting to, because there are other things that take priority in a bed full of John Watson).

"Not at all," Sherlock murmurs. He sees the last, lingering edge of doubt, and reaches over to take John’s shirt from his arms. He crosses and hangs both of their shirts in the wardrobe, side by side as John looks on, efficiency belying the habit of it.

They don’t say much more after that, although it does become one of those nights where they don’t undress themselves, relying on each other’s hands instead, and there will be clothes on the floor in the morning, and wrinkles in those clothes, which will mean hanging them in the wardrobe to air them out.

Sherlock wonders - after their breathing has calmed and John has turned over into sleep, dipping the mattress in such a way that Sherlock cannot but tip towards him, almost draped against his back - if by now their cells aren’t so intermingled and entwined in the fabrics of their lives, that analysis would yield nothing more than proof of the equalization of the solute concentrations.

With a sigh and settling shift, Sherlock curls closer about John. He glances at the alarm clock - set distressingly early for a man who doesn’t have clinic duty tomorrow, and Sherlock realises John had forgotten to switch it off, what with all the undressing and undoing.

He reaches out a long arm and postpones their awakening. Let the sun or their bladders have the honours.

Sherlock wraps himself once more around John and drifts down to slumber, knowing that each exhale will make room in his lungs for air laden with John - his scent, his cells, his presence - and that within the circle of his arms, John will inhale air full of Sherlock, a perfect exchange all through the night.

Equilibrium achieved, again and again.

**Author's Note:**

> If you feel like looking me up on tumblr, my username is the same there: patternofdefiance  
> <3


End file.
